


step out, step out of the sun if you keep getting burned

by themetaphorgirl



Series: Waving Through a Window [8]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Baby Spencer Reid, Drama, Gen, Gideon is Spencer's father figure, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Spencer meets Gideon, the story behind Spencer's allergy that's mentioned once in the series and then never again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23580463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetaphorgirl/pseuds/themetaphorgirl
Summary: Meeting a real FBI agent for the first time and finding out you have a deadly allergy in the span of 24 hours is a lot to take in for a fifteen-year-old.
Series: Waving Through a Window [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673107
Comments: 22
Kudos: 459





	step out, step out of the sun if you keep getting burned

**Author's Note:**

> "if you're falling in a forest, and there's nobody around, do you ever even crash or even make a sound?"
> 
> Spencer Reid grew up too fast, too harsh, too lonely. His "intellect is a shield which protects him from his emotions" and for a long time he thought he could be just fine without connections. After all, he learned quickly how to survive as a little kid in high school, as a child prodigy in college, as a fatherless kid taking care of his mother while she couldn't take care of him. He could rely on his intelligence, instead of feelings.
> 
> Once he joined the BAU, however, the team quickly formed their own ideas.
> 
> Part 8 of 22
> 
> also published on ff.net under the name Keitorin Asthore

_step out, step out of the sun, i_ _f you keep getting burned_

He felt a little warm, but that was probably just the excitement. This was the day he had been waiting for since the beginning of the semester, when he found out this was happening. An FBI agent, a prominent one, was coming to lecture at his class. He had dreamed about joining the FBI since he was little, and now he was going to get to learn directly from an agent. The unit chief of the behavior analysis unit, no less.

He got dressed quickly; he needed to make a good impression. His clothes were still mostly secondhand, but he'd had to replace just about everything over the last few years when his growth spurt finally began in earnest. He'd shot up to 5'10" and judging by the growing pains in his knees and hips he probably had a little left to grow. He was only fifteen, he could probably get a little taller.

He had his own single room now that he was out of undergrad and getting his first doctorate; Nate had long since dropped out of Caltech and transferred to a state school, closer to the beach. The room was still pretty sparse, but the money he made as a TA for Dr. Parr and manning the front desk of his dorm on night shifts allowed him to splurge on a minifridge and a coffeemaker from a thrift store. The university had supplied him with a laptop too; he didn't use it much but it was useful for catching up on Doctor Who and Star Trek on the weekends. 

He opened the the fridge and scanned its contents, then closed it. He wasn't hungry for breakfast right now, though, his throat felt a little sore.

He took the elevator downstairs and unlocked the chain on his bike. The tires seemed a little wobbly under him, but maybe that was the growing pains keeping him from balancing. He had to keep adjusting the seat to fit as he grew.

He got to the psychology building in record time. A few stragglers were getting to their eight AM classes a little late; he dodged them on the steps and headed towards Dr. Parr's lecture hall. The talk wasn't going to start until nine, but he wanted to get there early. Just in case.

He flipped on the lights and took his seat at his little desk on the side of the classroom. Despite the AC in the room, he still felt hot. Maybe it was just the bike ride, it was unusually warm for March in California. He pulled one of his math textbooks out of his messenger bag and got started on some extra work.

"...can't thank you enough for coming, I think my students could really benefit from hearing you speak…"

Spencer's head shot up and his pencil dropped from his hand. Dr. Parr walked into the lecture hall, accompanied by a stranger. He stood up quickly, a little too quickly, but he caught himself on the desk. Suddenly he felt nervous, a little shy.

"Oh, Spencer, you're here already," Dr. Parr said. "I don't know why I would be surprised."

The stranger smiled at him. "Local high schooler coming to audit a class?" he said.

"No, this is my teaching assistant, Spencer Reid," Dr. Parr said. "Spencer, this is Agent Jason Gideon, he's the unit chief-"

"Unit chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, yes, hi," Spencer said eagerly. "I've really been looking forward to hearing you speak."

Agent Jason Gideon looked from him to Dr. Parr, faintly amused. "Your TA?" he said. "Pretty impressive to be getting your undergrad so young." He tilted his head. "How old are you? Fourteen?"

"Fifteen, sir, and actually I've already gotten my undergrad," Spencer said. "Dual majors in psychology and sociology."

"Spencer is a doctoral candidate in mathematics at the moment," Dr. Parr explained. "There was a bit of a battle between departments to see who would get him for their TA, and I won, but barely."

"I'm on track to finish my doctorate next spring, and then I'll probably go in for a doctorate in engineering," he said. "Or maybe chemistry. Maybe both. Probably both, I'll-"

"Spencer," Dr. Parr interrupted, and he closed his mouth abruptly. She shook her head. "Sorry, Agent Gideon. He does that a lot. We keep him for his genius, not for his social skills. Or lack thereof."

He blushed red all the way up to his ears. Agent Gideon didn't react. "Can I get you anything?" Dr. Parr offered. "Coffee, water-"

"No, thank you," Agent Gideon said. "Class starts at nine, correct?"

"Yes, so…" She checked her watch. "About twenty minutes to go. You're sure you don't want anything? I can have Spencer run out and get you-"

"It's fine," Agent Gideon said, waving his hand.

A student walked in and stomped down the stairs, a paper in their hands. "Sorry, Agent Gideon, I'll be right back," Dr. Parr said. "A couple of my students haven't been so pleased about their grades on their latest papers."

She crossed over to the student; Spencer rocked up on the balls of his feet. He wasn't sure what to do. Should he strike up a conversation? Should he go back to his desk and sit down? Should he keep standing there in silence?

"So sociology, psychology, mathematics, chemistry, and engineering, huh?" Agent Gideon said. Spencer jumped, startled. "Quite a combination. What field are you hoping to work in?"

"Well, um...the FBI, actually," he said. His mouth went dry. "I was thinking...I've done some research...maybe even the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

He waited for Agent Gideon to laugh at him, to brush him aside. But he only smiled- a kind, thoughtful sort of smile. "Really," he said, his tone even. "My department."

"I've read all your books," Spencer said. "And your mentor's, Max Ryan. And David Rossi's, I know you worked with him for a long time. I've learned a lot."

Agent Gideon sat down on the edge of Dr. Parr's desk. "What did you learn from them?" he said.

Spencer's eyes lit up. And he talked. Agent Gideon didn't stop him, or interrupt him, just added to the conversation here and there. His skin buzzed with nervous energy. He'd never been allowed to talk so much without someone cutting him off.

"Agent Gideon, I'm so sorry, is he bothering you?" Dr. Parr said. Spencer stopped midsentence.

"No, he's fine," Agent Gideon said. He checked his watch. "Five till nine. Suppose I should get ready?"

"Yes, absolutely," Dr. Parr said. She turned to Spencer. "Remember, this is for the undergrads. Let them ask the questions. You're just observing."

"Yes, ma'am," Spencer said. He was grateful to be a TA, but Dr. Parr had an excellent knack for reminding him that he was a child in a grown-up's world. He scurried over to his little desk against the wall.

Agent Gideon's speech was everything he'd hoped for. He had to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep from blurting out questions a few times, but he still learned a lot. Agent Gideon was an excellent lecturer- concise, informational, clinical in description but with a sense of empathy for the cases he discussed. He was calm and quiet, but the students in the lecture hall stayed silent, listening to his every word.

At the end of the lecture most of the students lingered to talk to Agent Gideon, some of them holding out his book to sign. Spencer hung back, watching. He probably shouldn't try to talk to him again. He shouldn't press his luck.

The last student left and Dr. Parr moved to talk to Agent Gideon. Spencer busied himself with his math work. The next class wouldn't start till later, he had some time to get some extra problems done. It wouldn't take him long, although sometimes the numbers seem to swim across the page and he had to blink rapidly and rub his eyes before they fell back into focus.

He sensed a presence over his shoulder and set down his pencil. "Trigonometry, huh? Never my favorite, personally."

"Oh, Agent Gideon, I-"

"Just Gideon is fine," he said. "You have a little time, Spencer?"

"Um...yes, I don't have another class until eleven," he stammered.

"Would you like to get coffee or something?" Gideon asked. "You looked like you had some questions."

Spencer brightened. "Yes, sir!" he said. He scrambled for his messenger bag. "That would be amazing."

They ended up at the Starbucks in the student center. Gideon even bought him his coffee. The latte was sweet, but it felt sour in the back of his throat. Gideon let him ask questions, as many as he wanted, and didn't stop him. He was kind, Spencer realized. It was a specific sort of kindness, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Gideon took a sip of his coffee- venti, hot, black, one sugar. "So you're interested in becoming a profiler when you grow up," he said.

"Yes, sir, I do," he said earnestly. "Do you think I have any potential?"

Gideon took another sip of coffee. "Why do you want to be a profiler?" he asked.

Spencer sat back. "I don't know if I've thought about that," he said truthfully. He drummed his fingers on the side of his paper coffee cup. "I guess...I want to use the skills I have to help people. It's the most useful thing I can think of. And it seems interesting. I like challenges."

Gideon didn't say anything. He scrutinized him, making direct eye contact. Spencer resisted the urge to squirm a little under the intense gaze. Gideon folded his hands. "You are exceptionally bright, exceptionally talented," he said. "You have gotten where you are with hard work and dedication...but very little support. Everything you've earned, you've earned on your own." He smiled. "Is that a fair assessment?"

Spencer blinked. "Uh...yes, I...I think," he stammered.

"You have an eidetic memory, an astronomical IQ, amazing intelligence," Gideon continued. "None of that would matter if you weren't the kind of person you've become."

Warmth spread down to Spencer's fingertips. No one spoke to him like that, ever. "So you think I could be a profiler?" he asked.

The bells in the quad chimed and Spencer scrambled to his feet. "Oh, no, I'm so sorry, I'm late, I have to go-"

Gideon held out a hand and Spencer stopped. He stood up, reached for his wallet, and pulled out a business card. "Keep me updated," he said. "I'd like to know how your academic career progresses." Spencer took the business card, his fingers trembling. "The earliest age you can enter the academy is twenty-three. But when you turn eighteen, if you're still interested in joining the FBI...give me a call, okay?"

"Okay," Spencer said, his voice small. "Thank you, uh...thank you, Agent Gideon."

He smiled at him again. "Just Gideon," he said. He squeezed Spencer's skinny shoulder. "Good luck, kid." He paused. "And don't work yourself too hard, all right? Give yourself some time to rest when you can."

Spencer nodded, and Gideon walked past him, out of the coffee shop. And then he thought of the right word. Fatherly. Gideon's kindness seemed fatherly. At least, the fathers he read about in books. Certainly not his own.

He rode the high of meeting his hero for the rest of the day; staying up well into the night working on extra credit. That meant he woke up for his first class groggy and grumpy, but it was worth it. He was going to do it. He was going to make his way into the FBI if it killed him. And it was the last day before spring break, and he needed to put in an extra push before he was out of school for two weeks.

It didn't dawn on him that something was wrong until his third class of the day. He was sitting at his desk in Dr. Parr's hall, and his pencil fell out of his hand. He frowned. He picked it up again, and his fingers shook. And he realized he was cold. Maybe it was the air conditioning, and lack of sleep. He settled for pulling his cardigan out of his bag and burrowing into it.

His next class was across campus, but even leaving the chill of the lecture hall and riding his bike across campus didn't seem to warm him up. And he was having trouble balancing, the bicycle wheels tilting drunkenly. Maybe he did need to rest. Maybe he could sleep during spring break.

The fever hit at the beginning of his fifth class. And it hit hard.

He usually sat in the front, but something told him to sit in the back. It was ten minutes till the end of class, and the overwhelming sense of _wrong_ hit him like a mack truck. He tugged at his shirt collar. It felt too tight, but also he was freezing. And his throat was so sore he didn't want to talk for fear that no sound would come out.

He left class in a daze, stumbling last out of the door. There was only one more class left. Only one, but it was two hours long. But he needed to go. He had never missed school. Ever. After a moment of hesitation, he took the stairs up to his next class.

The last class was advanced trig. He sat in his usual seat, set out his pencils, turned to the right page in the textbook. His throat was sore now, painfully sore, like he was swallowing sandpaper. And his body couldn't decide if it was hot or cold now. But he forced himself to focus.

He started shivering in the last thirty minutes of class. Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck, soaking into his hair. _Almost there, almost there_ , he thought. _You've never left school early before._

He bolted the second the professor ended, dismissing them with a cheerful "have a great spring break!" His throat was on fire now. He knew it now, he was sick, he was going to spend his spring break trying to fix this as fast as he could.

Most places on campus were shutting down, preparing for students to leave. Spencer rode his bike to the Walgreens down the street. He could order in food if he was hungry- he was definitely not hungry at the moment, and the latte he'd had in the morning was not making him feel better- but he needed some kind of medicine if he was going to pull through this.

The lights were bright white in the drugstore, way too bright. He squinted, the beginnings of a headache pulsing at the crown of his head. Get in, get out, go home and go to sleep. That was the plan.

He stared at the jewel-toned bottles of liquid medicine lining the shelves, scanning the different kinds. The words blurred; he rubbed his eyes and tried again. He picked up the best option, along with a bottle of ibuprofren and some Gatorade, and lined up at the register.

The cashier scanned the ibuprofen and the drinks, then stopped. "I need your ID, honey," she said, bored.

He fumbled in his wallet and handed it over. She looked at it, unimpressed, and handed it back. "You gotta be eighteen to buy this," she said, and she put the bottle behind the counter.

His mouth dropped open. "But...but I need it," he said.

"You're only fifteen, you need a parent or guardian to purchase it for you."

"I...I don't have a parent or guardian," he said. "Not here, anyways, my mother's in Vegas and-"

"Sorry, I can't do anything about it," the cashier said. "You could always go to the minute clinic, they might be able to prescribe something for you."

He glanced over at the clinic. "I guess," he said.

She held up the plastic bag. "You still want this?" He nodded and handed over his card.

There was one mom with a snotty-nosed kid in line at the clinic; he filled out his paperwork and sank into a cracked vinyl seat to wait. He stared blankly at a display of ace bandages and arm braces, feeling the cold prickles of fever running up and down his body.

The nurse practitioner called him back, took down his height and weight, checked his blood pressure and temperature. "Let me see your throat," she said. He obeyed, wincing a little. "I'm going to take a throat culture. Hold still."

The cotton swab down his throat felt like murder and he nearly gagged. The nurse didn't acknowledge it, just took the culture and left the room. He sagged on the examination table, the thin paper crinkling underneath him. Maybe now they could just get him some medicine and he could go back to the safety of his dorm room to sleep.

The nurse knocked but didn't wait before entering. "Well, you've got strep," she said. "Pretty nasty case. We'll put you on an antibiotic." She handed him a small plastic cup with a couple of pills and a paper cup of water. "Take this now, the pharmacy's filling the rest of the prescription."

He took the pills and chased it with the water. Part of him had hoped that it would feel soothing on his throat- no such luck. He grimaced as the nurse left the room. Strep wasn't bad. Was it? He couldn't remember if he'd had it before. His mother wasn't very good about taking him to the doctor when he was sick- never mind regular checkups. Usually he would just take medicine from the bathroom cabinet and hope for the best.

He felt...itchy. That was unexpected. He scratched at his arms. The sensation ran up and down his body. Maybe it was another side effect of his fever.

He exhaled slowly. No, he couldn't remember the last time his mother took him to a doctor. Maybe when he broke his arm when he was five and they had to get the cast taken off.

Now his throat itched. Really itched. He scratched at his neck, but the itch wasn't external. He coughed, but he couldn't get any air in his lungs. The cough got stuck in his chest.

His eyes widened. He couldn't breathe. His throat was closing up, and fast.

Spencer grabbed at his throat. Panic bubbled in his chest. He tried to think critically. Anaphylaxis. Setting in fast. Prognosis was good, but only with prompt care.

"Help," he called, but no sound came out. "Help me!"

He slid down from the examination, ripping the thin paper, and his knees buckled. His lungs were tight, squeezed dry. The last thing he saw was the door opening, and then everything went black.

He woke up on the floor. The linoleum was ice cold on his burning skin. His heart was still beating too fast, but his lungs had relaxed enough to let air escape. Something throbbed in his right thigh like a beesting.

"All right, there we are. Much better."

He blinked. "Anaphylaxis," he mumbled.

"You're right, sudden onset anaphylaxis," the nurse practitioner said. "You're allergic to the antibiotic. Lucky we caught it so fast."

"Which...antibiotic?" he said.

"Carbenicillin."

He took a steadying breath, the deepest one he'd managed so far, and stared at the white fluorescent lights on the ceiling. "Beta lactams," he said hazily. "Penicillin, amoxicillin…"

"Next time, inform medical personnel before they prescribe anything," the nurse said sternly.

He dragged his hand over his face. "I didn't know I was allergic," he said. "I've never gotten tested."

"We had to use an epi-pen on you," the nurse said. "You'll probably bruise up later so don't be alarmed. Lucky we caught it fast enough, that could have caused some real damage. Come on, let's get you up off the floor."

She raised him up to a sitting position and he used the examination table to pull himself up to his feet. "We're getting you a different antibiotic, and an albuterol inhaler in case you experience more respiratory distress," she said. "Where's your parents? They may want to take you to the emergency room."

"My mom's in the car," he said. He'd gotten much better at lying over the years. "She'll take me."

The nurse nodded. "Just sit here for now, call her and have her come inside so we can fill her in on what happened," she said.

She left. He didn't sit down, he clung to the side of the examination table with too much adrenaline coursing through his veins. The fever and the dizziness and the pain in his throat and the tightness in his lungs crashed through his body. How was he going to get out of this one?

The nurse opened the door and held out his paperwork. "Take that up to the pharmacy, the prescriptions should be ready," she said. "Where's your mother? I'd like to go over this with her."

Before he could come up with a lie the other nurse practitioner stuck her head in the room. "Hey, could you give me a hand?" she said.

"It's the epi-pen kid, I"m waiting for his mother."

"It's really quick, it'll just take a few minutes."

"Fine," the nurse said. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

The second she left he grabbed the papers and his plastic shopping bag and hobbled over to the pharmacy. They were ready for him and he was out of the store with the white paper sack full of his new prescriptions before the nurse could catch him. His bank account took a bit of a hit, but at least he was still on his mother's insurance from her university or it would have been a lot worse.

He straddled his bike, glancing over his shoulder, half expecting the nurse to come chase him down, and pushed off the sidewalk. This was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had to get home somehow.

The dorms were nearly empty; nearly everyone had already left after their last class of the day. He wobbled into the elevator and pushed the button with his elbow. Almost there.

It took half a dozen tries before he could get his key into the lock. He stumbled inside and dumped his belongings on the floor, relief sinking into his shoulders. His fingers fumbled at his shoelaces, but once he kicked off his sneakers he crawled into bed, still fully clothed.

Spencer pulled the blankets over his shoulders and tugged his flip phone out of his pocket. He hit speed dial, let it ring three times, hung up. Dialed again, let it ring once, hung up. He waited.

His mother called him back about a minute later. It was the only way she would allow the phone to stay connected in the house, if she could tell if he was the one calling. "Spencer?" she said, her voice sharp. "Why are you calling?"

"Hi, Mom," he said around the soreness in his throat. "How are you?"

"You know I'm busy," she said. He could hear incessant clicking of her hands on computer keys; he could picture her fingers like spiders. "I have to get this book done, and quickly. I'm behind on my deadline."

There was no deadline. The publishing company hadn't asked for her submissions in months. "I'm sorry," he said anyway. "I wanted to call because-"

"Keep it quick, Spencer," Diana said. "You know they're tapping the phone lines."

He pressed his hand to his forehead. He was so cold, but his skin felt so hot. "I, um...I met an FBI agent yesterday," he said. "He thinks I could-"

"I have to go," Diana said abruptly. "They're listening, Spencer. You know better than to call when it's not important."

"I know, Mom, I'm sorry, I'm sick-"

She had already hung up. He rolled over onto his back, his forearm over his eyes and his phone falling from his fingers. It would be fine. There was nothing his mother could do anyway, no help or comfort. He just had to ride it out alone. He could do that.

He could do that.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be just Spencer meeting Gideon for the first time, and then I remembered that random allergy that Spencer's like "oh, yeah, this could kill me" but it wasn't mentioned once before. So this happened.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments and kudos!! I appreciate it so much. Y'all are getting me through this quarantine, I swear. (I work at Disney World so I've been home since March 15th and I'm going a little bonkers.)
> 
> My tumblr is themetaphorgirl if you'd like to chat or prompt things!


End file.
